Middle Names and Morning Rain
by TolkienGirl
Summary: One morning, John goes out to buy The-Always-Missing-Milk at the corner shop and runs into someone unexpected. Read and Review, please! Rating for mild language. (*All rights to their respective owners*)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I know, I know-I'm supposed to be writing the next Chapter of _Freak_ and the sequel to _Every Time_. Both are in the works, I promise! Until then, this is a little fic about a pairing I kind of ship WITH a twist that I've added. I hope that you enjoy it-it's quite fluffy, actually, so that will please some of my less angsty readers-and it features cameos by Mrs. Hudson, mentions of Mycroft (who deserves a fic himself sometime soon from me, more than Indecipherable), and OF COURSE Sherlock. Read and Review please! :)**

Sometimes, it rains.

Sometimes, there is no milk.

Sometimes, life happens and the two coincide.

John Watson sighed. The sigh was hardly to be remarked upon—it was an often enough occurrence. But today's sigh was more poignant. He reflected on this as he gazed rather than glared—he just…didn't have the energy for a glare—out at the fat, splashing raindrops from the window of the flat, his usually unimpeachable patience wearing as thin as the fraying spot on his jumper sleeve.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock was looking like some intensely focused, entirely hyper, and vaguely alien being, with his thick dark hair springing out above a pair of enormous safety goggles. He was measuring precipitate into a test tube with a precision and preoccupation that belied how little interest he had in the lack of milk, the prospect of conversation, or the existence of John.

"Sherlock, I'm going to get milk, I'm taking your umbrella, and I'll be back in half an hour. Thanks. Actually, you know what? I'm not thanking you. You should be thanking me, but you won't. Cause you're Sherlock. You're welcome anyway."

"Copper wire," Sherlock demanded, in that toneless, detached voice that very nearly made the last thread of John's patience snap. It was pretty obvious that he hadn't heard his flatmate's little tirade.

"Get the Godda—Mrs. Hudson. Hi."

"Everything alright, boys? Just came up to drop off your mail. It's a little wet, but if you put it near the fire—not too near, of course—it'll dry up right nicely. I'll just be bringing it up this once, mind—I'm your landlady, not your…John, are you going out? It's raining something dreadful. This weather and my hip…" she shook her head with a significant expression that did not bode well for the hip's welfare.

John murmured some condolences, for the weather or the hip he did not completely remember. He snatched up the umbrella—_why is Sherlock the one who owns the umbrella instead of me? That makes no sense—_and tramped down the stairs.

_Sometimes it would be nice if someone would just bloody notice everything I do._

_Yeah, like that's going to happen._

He was feeling sorry for himself, and he recognized this.

_Count your blessings, John Watson. You've got a flat, a flatmate, and a far more interesting life than half of London._

_More than half. Sherlock could probably give me the exact percentage._

Alright, he was grateful for that. But he wasn't grateful for the fact that, for one, last night Sherlock had managed to foil John's third relationship in two months by his usual means of "deducing" the hapless girl; two, that it would be great if _both _people who used up the milk would take turns at buying it; and three, that—well, did it _have_ to be raining?

He took a deep breath of the moist air and wondered how it was possible for London to be any greyer than it usually was.

He dipped into the little market on the corner—the grocery shop was more reliable, but he'd need to catch a taxi to get there and that was a dreadful business in bad weather.

_No chip and pin machine at this little shop, either._

That was a comfort.

He stepped inside, courteously closing his umbrella on the step. Then he turned, and nearly crashed into a young lady who was reading something on her phone.

"Sorry—" they said, at the same moment, and then both stopped short.

John had found himself face to face with Anthea.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: OK, chapter two-and the part were the title comes into play. Enjoy! :)**

Strange, John reflected, seemed almost too mild a word for the situation.

"You," he exclaimed.

"You," she sighed.

She was wearing a pale rose-colored jumper and jeans, which made her look a lot less mysterious and intimidating than when she was attired in that jaunty black caped ensemble which he had often seen in the back of Mycroft's kidnapping car.

"You're…you're on free time," he observed, not sure how to conduct the conversation.

Her lips quirked upwards in her typical smile, which he found at once condescending and…attractive. So what? He was attracted to her. He knew it. She knew it. Mycroft probably knew it, which was slightly—OK, more than slightly—disturbing.

"I told you I get lots," she replied, in a tone that managed to be bland and alluring all at once.

"Yes. Yes you did." He glanced at her luxurious brown hair, which was tumbling over her shoulders. It was dry. "You've been waiting for the rain to stop?"

"Observant, Dr. Watson. You've been taking notes from Sherlock."

He was pretty sure that she was being sarcastic. "I do share a flat with him."

The smile again. "Oh, we know. Here to buy that pesky milk?"

He sighed for what felt like the thousandth time that day. "How could you _possibly_ know about that?"

She waved her phone coyly at him. "How do you think? We have excellent surveillance on 221B."

John nodded. "And its refrigerator. Yes, Mycroft doesn't miss a thing, of course. Except maybe the fact that his assistant doesn't have an umbrella? He's practically the umbrella-man, I've never seen him without his…why don't you have one?"

For the first time, she looked a bit miffed instead of amused. "I'm on my off hours, just like you said. He doesn't run every bit of my life."

John recognized the expression, since he'd seen it on his own face often enough. "A little row with your Holmes?"

"And you've had a little one with _yours_," she retorted. "I don't think I have to explain to you the little ways they can be…trying, Dr. Watson."

"It's John."

"I know."

"And it's not actually Anthea."

"No."

"I wish I could be all dark and enigmatic like you, and say it wasn't actually John, but it is."

She cracked a smile—almost a real one. "Who would pick John for an alias, anyway? It's hardly original."

He laughed. "No, it isn't. Not at all."

They seemed a bit natural for a moment, but he realized he'd raised his hopes too soon. She seemed to have regretted her admittance of being piqued at Mycroft, and had once more retracted into her patronizing, amused, and (John admitted to himself) very pretty shell. "I'm on my way. Now be a good man and call me a cab. I'll need to borrow your umbrella for a moment, too, if it's not too much trouble."

"Sure," he said, and then stopped. He set his chin forward a bit, as he used to do he gave an order to subordinate in the Army. "Look, I'm sorry, but I'm not calling a taxi for you. That is, unless you let me buy you a coffee. Here's the thing—I know that I'm that nice guy, the gentleman, and everything, and so I apologize if this is rude. But that doesn't change that I'm doing it. We're getting a coffee together or you can dam—you can go and call the cab yourself. That's all."

For the first time in their acquaintance, Anthea looked at him with surprise—and something almost like interest. "Well…OK," she conceded, as though for once she couldn't think of a good comeback.

_Keep it together, John. You've just forced her into drinking a coffee with you. It's not even the second cousin of a date._

They made their way over to one of the little tables that gave the shop its versatile reputation, and set down to glance at the humble menu.

He watched Anthea's nose tilt at the choices.

"This isn't really your idea of coffee, is it?"

She raised her eyebrows. "What do you think?"

"We don't have to get any if you don't want, we can just—talk."

"Talk?" The eyebrows were up again.

_God, she's pretty._ "Talking. Yes. It's what people do, sometimes."

"When they probably shouldn't, right?" She smiled a little, and her eyes—which, John noticed anew, were brown—twinkled. "So what shall we talk about, Dr.—I mean, John?"

"How about names?"

"What about names?"

He couldn't tell if she was being coy or defensive. Possibly both.

"Well, if Anthea isn't your real name, what is? First, I mean. And I don't want to know it so I can 'investigate' you in the same way your boss runs invasive surveillance on the world and their refrigerators. I just—I'd just like to know."

"The refrigerator part really bothered you, didn't it?" she teased, playing around the question. At last she looked pensive. "It is my real name, actually. Just not my first. Middle name."

"OK. That makes sense."

"What's yours?" she asked.

"Um…Hamish."

She laughed. "I know."

"Then why ask?"

"I wanted to hear you say it."

"God, you're something," he said, shaking his head. "It's…yeah. A good old Scottish name, I guess."

"It's my grandfather's name," she told him, comfortingly.

"Is that a good thing?" he asked, a bit hopefully.

Her eyes twinkled again. "No."

She was making his head spin, but John decided that he didn't mind. "Well then, what about first's? You've got to tell me. I can't imagine I need top security clearance with Mycroft to know it."

"Maybe not with Mycroft, but definitely with me." She relented after a moment. "It's just—it's…boring." She tugged at the fuzzy pink sleeve of her jumper.

"My name's John. When someone's identity is unknown, they call him a John Doe." John shrugged. "Yours can't be any more anonymous than mine."  
She chewed her lip for a moment, and then murmured. "Mary. It's Mary."

"Mary Anthea," he said. "That's pretty. Really, it is."

"John Hamish," she returned. "That's—I don't know if I'd call it pretty."

"I wouldn't want you to," he informed her. Had the rain lightened up, or did the day feel less grey?

She stood up. "Do I still need to drink a dreadful coffee, or will you call a cab for me despite that?"

"I will if you like," he agreed, "But I think the sun's come out." Sure enough, golden beams were peeping through the dingy shop window.

Her hair swung over her shoulders as she glanced playfully back at him, pocketing her phone. "Maybe I want you to call the taxi for me anyway. Doesn't that seem like a man's job, Hamish?"

He raised his hands, knowing he was beaten. "Hamish? Oh, don't start—"

A smile—a truly real one, this time, as bright as sunbeams—crossed her features. "Oh, I've already started."

**A/N: By the way, I like the names John and Mary :) Hope you enjoyed this fic! Read and Review! (I can't say it enough!)**

**P.S. I MIGHT continue this, if you like! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: OK, so I have decided to make this a multi-chapter. Thanks so much to my reviewers, and especially patemalah21, who has been most encouraging and gave me idea for the surveillance on 221B. This chapter is a mixture of fluff and some angstiness, because I've decided to include mentions of Anthea's past. In analyzing her sarcastic, aloof manner, I've come to believe that she probably has had bad experiences in being close to people. I hope that it isn't OOC or anything!**

**Also—Macassar ebony is a VERY expensive wood flooring, and it seemed appropriate for the Diogenes Club. ;)**

_Click, click, click._

There had always been something about the sound of her £500 heels tick-tacking against the Macassar ebony floor of the hallway of the Diogenes Club that empowered her. _Click, click_. Feminine mystery coupled with professional edge.

Anthea slid her black demi-cape half over her shoulders and pushed a wayward lock of smooth brown hair out of her face.

_Monday morning, time to clear the air._

After all, even those confidently clicking heels were a gift from Mycroft. Stewing in annoyance over his latest…Holmesian diversions…was not good for her job. Or her wardrobe.

_God, he's just such a git sometimes,_ she thought, even as she favored one of the younger members of the Club with a sweet, enigmatic smirk. He gaped after her, and she found herself almost giggling, her irritation with her boss nearly—but not quite—forgotten.

Her charm, and her ability to be unruffled and inscrutable whatever the situation, had always made her valuable. _Works on everyone…_

_"Look, I'm sorry, but I'm not calling a taxi for you."_

She was discomfited by the memory. _OK, maybe not everybody._

_Hold on, I could talk my way out of an international incident. I _have._ Twice. So why couldn't I talk my way out of a coffee with a guy whose middle name sounds like some obscure breed of sheepdog?_

_He does have nice eyes, though…and there's something about the way he holds his jaw when he wants his way…_

The firm click of her heels faltered. _What? Good Lord, what was that about? Are you finally going bonkers?_

_Think about that later. For now, stop letting your thoughts bounce around like this. If he can observe a trace of anything, he'll deduce you to hell._

Squaring her slim shoulders, she pushed the ornate door that opened into Mycroft Holme's office.

He was the standing before the fireplace, his portly yet poised figure silhouetted against the flames. She heard his refined, buttery voice saying, "Good morning, Anthea." He hadn't even turned.

"Good morning." She kept her tone cold.

He waved one of his long, large, graceful hands. "I suppose I owe you an…apology. My penchant for surveillance may have overstepped its bounds. I was bored—and you know what boredom does to a Holmes." He turned, tilting a smile at her. "Forgiven and forgotten?"

"Perhaps. But I would prefer, Mr. Holmes, if you _never_ hacked my personal cellphone again. Having access to my texts was not part of the job description."

"Mr. Holmes—still not on first name terms. Threatening!" His eyebrows twitched amusedly.

Infuriating as he could be, and was, she'd never been able to stay angry with Mycroft Holmes for long. Very probably that was why she'd kept her job so long. He wasn't so impenetrable as that. She knew that, though he had the edge on his little brother in terms of diplomacy, he still wasn't the easiest person to get along with. The fact that she put up with him good-humoredly—_most_ of the time—meant a lot to him.

"Alright. Mycroft. It's just that I don't appreciate having my privacy invaded." She fixed him with her most ingratiating smile. "The government can have no need to know what I said to my ex-boyfriend."

"Enchantingly sweet, that you kept his old texts," said Mycroft, making her blush. He waxed deferential once more. "Yet as I said, apologies. I won't experiment in such a way again."

"Thanks."

"Sherry?" he offered, twiddling a cut glass in his agile fingers.

"You know I'm not a drinker."

"Ah yes, in reaction to your late father's alcoholism," he mused. It might have offended another, but she was over being mad at him—and she knew that he wasn't trying to needle her. He was just noticing and knowing, as he did. The mention of her father still hurt, but she had long practice in concealing that.

She shrugged in answer, waiting for him to give her instructions for the day. Instead he said, unexpectedly. "Interestingly, that particular trait of yours reminds me of another object of my surveillance—though a more legitimate one, my dear. Dr. Watson. Very aggressively anti-alcohol, because of his sister's indiscretions. Odd, that you two should have anything in common. Or that I should even think to make a comparison." He poured himself a glass of amber-coloured liquid and sipped it meditatively.

"Very odd," she agreed smoothly, but she could feel her pulse racing. Please God Mycroft couldn't see the throbbing, in the pale hollow of her throat.

_Why should I be agitated? This is ridiculous._

She folded her arms gracefully. "What's on my agenda today?"

Mycroft's deepset eyes flickered up at her, as though he had forgotten her and then remembered her again. "Oh yes, of course. I'm afraid it's not terribly interesting—but I'm putting you on surveillance—" he said the word significantly, and she wondered if it had bothered him that she'd been upset—"over my little brother. He's…he's rather fretful today. There's a case in which I have forbidden his interference—for his (and my) security—and I know that he is _most_ eager to disregard my wishes. As usual." He sighed. "Anyway, I need a pair of eyes on 221B, where he's likely to be plotting. I would bear the tedium myself, but—" he glanced at his watch.

"Not a problem," Anthea heard herself say hastily. "I'd be delight—that would be fine."

Mycroft's gaze pierced through her for a moment, and she felt herself shaking in the same shoes which had been boldly clicking mere moments before. She waited for some devastatingly observant statement, but all he said was—with one of his pursed-lip smiles—"Excellent."

_Camera A112._

Anthea tried not to notice that her fingers were trembling as she tapped in the activation code. The picture on the screen was blurry at first, but soon it sharpened into focus. She could see the familiar chaos of the younger Holmes' apartment—a suspicious vat boiling on the stove; a gruesomely realistic reproduction of blood spatter patterns tacked up on the wall; and case files haphazardly stacked on the end table.

The perpetrator of this cluttered atmosphere was striding about animatedly, his dressing gown flapping behind him. John, looking as mild and patient as ever, was reading a newspaper—and occasionally seemed to be attempting to mollify his irate flatmate.

Oddly enough, Anthea found her eyes drawn away from the dynamic detective—whose erratic gestures should have been more interesting—to the composed figure of the army doctor. Curiously and a little guiltily (but wasn't she supposed to be surveying them? What if Sherlock was saying something Mycroft needed to know?), she turned on the volume.

"It's ludicrous," Sherlock was saying.

"Yeah, well, that's Mycroft." John shrugged. "What's so interesting about the case anyway, Sherlock? It's not international smuggling, or _pirates_—" Anthea smiled against her will—"It's just a diplomatic feud. He doesn't want you involved because it's delicate and potentially dangerous for his job."

Sherlock stopped short in his pacing and turned to look at John with what Anthea could see (despite the grainy camera image) was a look of utter disgust. "I don't care about the _case_ John. I've already solved it."  
She saw John's eyebrows go up—and felt her pulse go up with them. _Stop it._ "Then what is the bloody problem?"

"Mycroft _forbade_ me to have anything to do with it. The pettiness of my brother's controlling nature never ceases to astound me. As though his commands have any influence over my actions!"

Anthea watched as John folded his newspaper with a sigh. "So this is about pride. And sibling rivalry."

"It's not! It's a matter of principle!"

"You don't have principles, Sherlock."

Sherlock hadn't noticed that his friend was teasing. "They don't happen to be yours, John, but I do have them."

"I'm sorry, I just can't get worked up over a case that you're not allowed to be part of, when you don't even want it and have already solved it. Also, Sherlock—" John stabbed a finger warningly in his flatmate's direction—"Mycroft has cameras _in_ this flat. He's probably listening in to this conversation right now."

"Of course he is. I know where the cameras are, John, I've just never bothered to remove them."

"Why the _hell_ not? He knows when we're out of milk. That is pushing it _too far._"

Sherlock shrugged, searching underneath his skull for something…probably cigarettes, Anthea assumed. She'd known Sherlock long enough to tell when he wanted a fix…of nicotine or something stronger. "Oh, I let him play his little motherly game of watching me. It's better than more drastic measures, which he has employed in the past. My brother, always such a loving guardian." Sherlock fixed his eyes exactly on the hidden camera, and Althea drew back a little. It felt like he could see her.

Abruptly, his mood changed and he threw off his dressing gown, snatching his Belfast coat from the hook. "I'm going out."

"Knock yourself out," John murmured, picking up his newspaper again. He reconsidered after a moment. "Not literally, of course."

Sherlock ignored him and pounded down the stairs.

She watched John sigh and lean back deeper into the creases of his worn leather armchair. Part of her mind knew that she should be switching the camera feed and following the erratic movements of the exasperated Sherlock, but instead she rested her chin on her hand and stared at the single remaining occupant of 221B.

_I wish this camera had a higher resolution…or a zoom feature…_

_What are you doing?_

She watched John get up, run his hands through his short dark blond hair—despite his loose jumper and his constant assertions of battle injury, she could tell that he was in quite good shape—and flipped his laptop open.

_He must be blogging. _She watched his fingers move rapidly over the keyboard with undue fascination. It wasn't like she'd never seen anyone type before.

He paused to take a sip from a mug of tea, then ran the back of his hand over his mouth. He resumed typing.

She craned her neck, trying to see him more clearly.

_Oh, God. If Mycroft could see me now—_

She straightened up, tried to reassume her façade of detached allurement—almost in an attempt to reassure the empty room (or herself) that she wasn't in the least affected by the homespun charm of the Army doctor.

_Then why can't you take your eyes off him?_

She ignored the mental question and let her gaze follow his every move, observing as he reached up and traced the side of his jaw thoughtfully. She remembered, suddenly, that he had a scar there.

For some reason, that made her heart flutter. Perhaps there was something attractive about a scar to a woman who hid so many of them.

_Or perhaps there's just something attractive about him…_

She tried to stop herself from thinking that, but she was falling, slipping into the realization that it might be…

True.

She had never liked to fall. Falling had been her father's demise—a drunken plunge off a pier. In her dreams—the nightmares she carefully concealed behind a mysterious smile and the click of high heels—she, too, plummeted downwards, soundlessly screaming.

Falling was dark. Dangerous. Deadly.

But now she was falling again, and it was none of those things. Because this time, she wasn't falling into nothing. She was falling for _someone_.

Someone who wore benevolent jumpers, who bore tribulations with saintly patience, someone with a scar on his cheek.

Someone who wouldn't call her a taxi.

Someone who had wanted to know her real name.

**A/N: If you read, please review! Since this was originally a two-shot, turning it into a multi-chapter has made me a bit nervous...so I'd REALLY like feedback! :) Please? Constructive criticism is welcome!**


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